I made this white Sangria from Apple, orange and a natural sweet white wine from Robertson Winery, South Africa.

How to mix them?

Chop up small pieces of Apple, then mix together with orange juice and orange flesh, pour in the wine and fridge for overnight.

How to serve?

Using a high glass, rub the lemon on the rim of the glass, then dip it in the salt, put in ice cubes to the glass, pure in the mixed drink and melon & orange juice to enhance the color, garnet with lemon juice and limoncello, decorate with a piece of lemon on the glass rim.

It is done, using a straw to taste the drink, then drink directly. The salt adds flavor.

West Forward
Sheer, go West, go Arataki
deep into the tunnel,
the nature expands,
the old Kauri trees hug around us;
Tall to hail,
lower branches bending to hold all reaching hands;
the rumple of the dam water does not
make us age in the wrinkle,
but the blink of the lover’s eyes,
it is where the beautiful faces mirror,
the creeping loves see to the water,
respond to the sweat, and
merry hearts of the dam workers,
from the rushing falling of the water.

The rugged, rough, broad, bearded men
existed in the rails, the river bridge, the pipelines.
On the chest, the lady’ s comfort;
the shoulder, brought the hikers’ pleasures;
the hands of every stones in the creek.
The thirst, the West workers’ day desire
is the moment, the Aucklanders’ like,
to hear the poem echoed in the swirling turbine,
to experience the falling pleasures of the water.

I loathe the muddy, hilly, slippy roads;
I loathe the narrow, risky, tricky, winding tracks,
but the sight of the rails, the long pipelines,
the cement, wood bridge,
the metal, the cement pipelines,
I can not complain.

who cares of the fishing quota
for pleasures it does, but the fairness,
of what public means,
bigger than the industry.
Another thing, we do not swarm the beach
with all the modern fantasies,
only some deep, secret happiness.

The crash waters of Piha,
is our paradise of wild dream
to conquer, to forgive,
to catch up the moment.
The innocent men,
you know you see us go through the water,
see you as gentlemen,
tender hearts,
waving hands as the tram moves along.

Where is the Hilary’ treasures,
hidden in the bush,
I guess,the shinny tears of the mosses,
green and fluffy like spring lamps on the fresh greens.
In rest, the birds chirping always bring your merry faces,
the thick branches still stretch out
as your hands grasping on ours.
A boulder in the hill is like a thrown gravel
into the lake of the bush,
knocking on your heart.
oh, wake up,
my men, your sleep gives so much silence
I want to sing, to dance
as your little kid.
Your honestness belongs
in this West, you remain as the fairness goes.

Oh，falling leaves, wild plum flowers, white petals, brighter than fresh flowers on the land; Small and white blossoms, bunches and bunches, tight and open, one cluster to another, almost touching both. How the Azaleas could make such a Spring story with all the falling petals, red on the earth, such a fresh, fancy carpet? More Brilliant than the Poppy flowers for the young soldiers, a celebration of love and passion, while the Poppy is so fragile, so lonely.
Passing by a young man, whose pocket with two pinky purple magnolia flowers’ heads showing through the light blue costume, his light smile, such a romance.

The coral tree, red with bird’s beak, high on the King’s volcano. There are actually two, facing each other, embracing the red roofs of the Eden village, the last remains of the ocean of life. 3 months to Christmas, they are the fore messengers of the Puhutukawa.

Rustic Mt Albert, all the way canal leads to the foot of the hill. Secluded ball field crowned with sunset, long grass, rocky stones, such a gorgeously wild area.

Thinking back the Jazz band, flowered maids in the Cornwall park, spring indeed comes with the last blossom of daffodil.